


Impecunious

by Skud



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: A Study in Scarlet, AU, Anonymous Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, POV First Person, blowjob, book canon, handjob, rentboy au, wall!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. -- <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/244/244-h/244-h.htm">A Study in Scarlet</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Impecunious

**Author's Note:**

> 1) An AU off "A Study in Scarlet", with a certain amount of movie inspiration thrown in; 2) Big thanks to epershand, whose description of her narrative kinks helped me figure out where this was going.

_So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. -- [A Study in Scarlet](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/244/244-h/244-h.htm)_

I had been pondering my impecunious state over a drink at the Criterion Bar, and despite exerting my brain over it for an hour or so, had come to no firm conclusion as to what path to take. I left, and set to walking about in no particular direction, hoping to come across a "Rooms to let" sign in a likely-looking window.

I had been walking for some time, glad of the exercise, and was considering returning to my hotel (for it was beginning to get dark), when I felt a stone in my shoe. Stooping to untie my shoelace and remove it, I heard a sound from an alleyway -- a faint scuffling, followed by a gasping and grunting. I put my shoe back on and waited, wondering whether perhaps somebody required assistance. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I made out two men, one in a guardsman's uniform, and it was not too long before I realised what they were about. I moved quietly and stood against the wall, continuing to watch.

I do not know why I was so transfixed; as a medical man and a military man, I was perfectly aware of such acts, and it was hardly a new or shocking thing, yet on this occasion I found it uncommonly compelling. It was only when the guardsman came out of the alley, adjusting the front of his uniform tunic, that I turned from the scene to find another man standing behind me, no more than a foot away. I had not heard him approach. He appeared dishevelled, distracted, his eyes flickering around from the cobblestones to the gas lamps -- unlit as yet -- to my own trousers.

"You are short of money," he said, a simple statement of fact, though how he knew it I could not tell. "Come." He grasped my elbow and led me into the alley. Though I was confused, I complied willingly enough.

He brought us to a stop in the shadows against the wall, just by where I had seen the two other men at their business, then took my hand and guided it to his crotch. I could feel his member stiffening under the cloth of his trousers. To tell the truth, I myself had been hard since discovering the scene in the alley. His own hand covered mine, and with impatient movements he showed me what he wanted me to do. I felt my own organ twitch in response, and without complaint or comment, I rubbed his member and grasped it through his garments, then, with my head spinning so that I hardly knew what I was about, I pushed him back a step, so his back was to the wall, pressed myself against him, and with one awkward hand unbuttoned his flies.

His member was hot against my palm, and he flung an arm around my body, holding me against him in a rough embrace, both of us leaning against the brickwork, as I brought him to his completion. My own prick, painfully hard, I thrust against his hip as he stifled a cry and spent.

I did not have the chance to reach my own completion, however. With remarkable presence of mind, considering the circumstances, he extricated himself from his position against the wall and quickly buttoned his trousers. I was left leaning with one hand outspread against the rough brick, breathing heavily. I fought to compose myself before I turned around.

"Thank you," he said. "I hope your injury does not pain you too much." He reached into a pocket and handed me a coin, and turned to leave.

"Wait," I said, but he paid no attention. As he reached the end of the alley, I saw him silhouetted against the traffic of the street for a moment before he disappeared.

I looked at the coin. It was a half sovereign -- almost as much as the Army's half-pay would provide me in a day. His seed had spattered on my coat; I found my handkerchief and dabbed at it, cleaning myself up as best I could then, feeling somewhat shaken, walked back to my hotel.

* * *

Indecision dogged me for the rest of the week. I received an invitation from an Army friend to stay in the country, but I still held out hope for cheaper lodgings in town. I read advertisements every day and circled likely prospects, and spent hours traipsing around, but none of the rooms seemed to suit me. They were either too dingy or too expensive, or in too inconvenient a part of town, or had too unsympathetic a landlady.

On more than one occasion I walked past the alleyway where I had had my adventure, and felt a frisson at the remembrance of what had occurred there. Life had been uncommonly dull since I had returned to England, and I was grateful to the stranger who had rescued me from my ennui. So charmed was I by my adventure, that I even considered repeating the experience. Half a sovereign seemed rather a good return for five minutes' work, and if I were to make a habit of it, it would certainly be a way out of my financial difficulties. This prospect, however, was balanced against the obvious disadvantages of the scheme: a small matter of the law, to begin with, not to mention morality.

I had known men to turn to buggery on campaign where, after all, women are scarce, but there was no excuse for that sort of behaviour in London. Even for a man of such meagre resources of my own, there were establishments where female company could readily be found, and I took advantage of them on several occasions, each pleasurable enough though, it seemed, not enough to entirely supplant the memory of my adventure.

The fact was, the experience had provided me with material for my nightly self-manipulation ever since I had returned to my hotel with the smell of the stranger's seed still on my hand. I did not know who my client had been, but he fascinated me. His uncanny appearance just at that moment, and his discernment of my unspoken desire for what I had seen in the alley, had been more than convenient. I wondered, as I lay in my hotel room with my hand to my prick, what sort of man he was, and whether I would ever encounter him again.

It was about ten days later, in another part of town, that I next saw him. It was late, and I was returning from the theatre where I had seen an amusing farce. My stranger stood leaning against a lamp-post, smoking a pipe, as though he had been waiting for me. I stopped in my path, my heart thumping in my chest, though I believe I managed to maintain my countenance.

"Good evening," I said, unsure how to address him.

He smiled, a sardonic twist of one corner of his mouth, nodded a brief acknowledgement, then with a lift of his eyebrow, turned and walked away, nonchalance emanating from his every step. I stood, irresolute, until he looked back over his shoulder and said, "Well, come along, then." I hurried after him.

The alleyway to which he led me on this occasion was lit by a gas-lamp at one end, but full of shadows at the other. He strode down it til he passed under an archway and disappeared. I followed, and found him standing just beyond the arch with a half-sovereign piece glinting between his upheld fingers.

I could not see his face, but I supposed he could see mine. I felt a momentary sense of the ridiculous, that after imagining another encounter all week, I should find myself in this situation and not know what to do. I considered turning around and running away, and was on the brink of doing so when he laughed. The merest huff of amusement, but it was enough to spur me to action. I stepped forward, snatched the coin from his hand and, as I had done on our previous meeting, moved to push him against the wall. Before I could touch him, however, his arm shot out, diverting my attempt and throwing me off my balance. I found myself on my knees on the wet cobblestones, my leg protesting with a twinge of pain.

"Perhaps something different this time," he said in an even tone, though I thought, or imagined, that I could hear laughter beneath the words. I did not dwell on this, however; of far greater importance was the fact that my face was no more than inches from his trouser-buttons, which he was unbuttoning with one hand. "You _do_ know how to..." He made a gesture which perfectly expressed his meaning.

"Of course," I said, though to tell the truth I had never performed the act before. I knew my face was reddening with acute embarrassment, but at the same time, I could not deny a similar flow of blood to my nether regions. I pushed aside any qualms, and resolved to do my best.

His hand descended upon my shoulder and guided me toward him. I reached out one hand and wrapped it around the base of his shaft, thinking that if I did not, the length of it might choke me. He shifted his weight, pressed the tip of his organ against my lips, and I closed my eyes and opened my mouth to accept it. Time passed; I could not tell how much. My whole mind was focused on the smoothness of his cock-head, the sensation of it on my tongue, the surprising flavour of him, and on what technique would best serve, while he kept his hands on my shoulders, grasping rhythmically at the cloth of my coat as I moved my mouth up and down his member, and letting out an occasional low groan as I discovered a particularly efficacious trick of the tongue.

At length, he convulsed, and ejaculated in my mouth. I felt myself choking on it, and pulled away, spitting. "My apologies," he said, his voice surprisingly steady, his hand still on my shoulder. "I should have warned you."

I shook my head, not able to speak for the moment. A handkerchief -- I had one in a pocket somewhere -- I could not find it. He held one out to me, rumpled and far from clean, but it served well enough. I wiped my mouth and handed it back to him, and he in his turn wiped himself and rebuttoned his trousers, then offered me a hand up, which I gladly accepted.

I expected him to leave at once, but he didn't. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness, and I could see him clearly now. Not that it served me well: he simply stood there, unfathomable, impenetrable. In frustration, I said, "I must know who you are."

He nodded at that, and drew a slim leather card-case from his pocket. His card read, "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. 221B Baker St., N.W." Holmes, then -- his name was Holmes. As to what a consulting detective was, I had no idea, but that was not foremost in my mind at that time. I realised that I had the advantage of him, and thought to introduce myself in turn. However, before I could speak, he said, "And you are Doctor John Watson, of course."

"How -- " I spluttered, "How do you know my name?"

He smiled again, a quick flash of that knowing, satirical smirk that I would later come to know so well, and continued calmly filling his pipe, as if his extraordinary pronouncement had been the most ordinary thing in the world. "It was hardly difficult," he said. "However, I will explain it if you insist. Call on me on Wednesday afternoon -- three o'clock."

* * *

Five minutes before three o'clock on the following Wednesday I stood on the pavement across from 221B, Baker Street. I looked up at the window and thought I saw a flicker of movement there, but I could not tell whether it was Holmes or another tenant of the building. I had already stiffened my resolve with a tot of whiskey at a nearby public house, and so with a deep breath I crossed the street.

The intervening days had depleted my funds to the point of exhaustion -- with the exception of the two half-sovereigns which I had not spent -- and if I were to stay any longer I should surely find myself thrown out of my hotel. I had resolved to take up my friend's offer to pay him a visit in the country, but could not bring myself to do so until after this meeting.

I rang the door-bell and was admitted at once. As I ascended the stairs, another man emerged suddenly from the door at the top and came clattering down. As he passed me, I recognised him and exclaimed, "Hullo!" It was my old colleague Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Barts. I had not seen him for years, and was surprised to encounter him here.

"Watson!" he replied, shaking my hand heartily, though I noticed he was agitated. "You're not going to see Holmes, are you?"

"I, err -- that is, yes, I am."

"The man is a maniac!" he said, with feeling. "Perfectly deranged!" I wondered what had caused him to say so, any number of repellant ideas passing through my mind as he continued, "I've told him I shan't stay another day. Look, Watson, are you settled in town? Will you join me for luncheon tomorrow?"

I told him I was leaving for Lincolnshire as soon as I could. He expressed his regret, shook my hand again, and departed, leaving me standing on the stairs, quite bewildered and more than a little hesitant. I steeled myself once more and continued my ascent, wondering what I had let myself in for.

Holmes answered my knock before I had even lowered my hand, as if he had been standing by the door. He was dressed in his shirt-sleeves, and held his pipe, unlit, in his hand. "My dear Watson," he said expansively, "Come in. We shan't be disturbed."

"Good afternoon, Holmes," I said in return, and took the chair he offered me. I looked around. It seemed to be a perfectly ordinary sitting-room, a little messy perhaps, and with a few odd things here and there -- some chemical apparatus, some newspapers in German, a single shoe laid carelessly, sole-upward, on a side-table -- but hardly the den of depravity I had feared from Stamford's words on the stairs.

"I met Stamford on my way up," I said, by way of breaking what promised to become an awkward silence.

"No doubt you knew him at Barts," replied Holmes.

The awkward silence I had tried to avoid came upon me now. How did he know that I had worked with Stamford there, and why did he choose to mention it in such an offhand fashion, when he knew it must disconcert me? My avowed reason for calling upon him was to demand an explanation of him for his strange knowledge of my name and history, but now it came to it, I did not know how to ask. At the same time I was all too aware of what other, less admissable reason he might have had for inviting me to his rooms, and could not help my body's unbidden reaction to the idea. I shifted in my seat to make myself more comfortable, noticed him watching me as I did so, and felt a sudden flash of anger at his too-casual demeanour and all-knowing smugness.

"You owe me an explanation," I said.

"Certainly," he replied. "You wished to know how I knew your name." I nodded curtly. "There is no mystery to it," he continued. "Your injury, your military air, the brownness of your complexion -- all these I noticed when I first saw you. These clues led me easily to the conclusion that you had recently returned from Afghanistan. Your dress was that of a medical man: an army doctor, in fact. It was no trouble at all to examine the reports of army doctors recently returned on medical leave, who had no close family and might therefore be discovered, impecunious, in London, and learn your name. A simple matter of deduction, as I am sure you will agree, but you will find I take pleasure in such trifles."

"Very well," I said, somewhat mollfied. When he put it like that, it seemed quite ordinary, and I wondered that I had not guessed at his process myself. "I will admit that you are correct on all counts so far, but what made you think me short of money?"

"The soles of your shoes. The mud on the cuffs of your trousers, indicating that you had been walking some distance, rather than taking a hansom-cab as a man in better circumstances might do. You are looking for lodgings, are you not?" He reached over suddenly and pulled a sheet of newspaper from my waistcoat pocket. On it I had circled several advertisements for rooms to let. "I thought as much. The rest was equally simple; you really are quite... transparent." With a glance at my crotch, he indicated that my body was betraying me now as it had on the day we met.

I glared at him. "Very clever, I'm sure," I said, "though hardly gentlemanly."

"The polite fictions of society are merely a distraction. I have a higher calling." What rot, I thought. The fellow was starting to irritate me, and I was coming to understand Stamford's hasty exit. "Since you are seeking lodgings," he continued, changing the subject with a half-lidded glance that belied his casual tone, "perhaps you would care to move in with me."

"Absolutely not!" I stood up, incensed at his manner. "I won't stand for this. First you, you -- take advantage of me in a public thoroughfare, _twice_, then this insupportable invasion of my privacy, and now you have the God-damned audacity to suggest that I, that I --" He raised an insouciant eyebrow, but didn't shift from his seat while I paced and fumed. "I won't be your catamite, Holmes!"

I took the two half-sovereigns from my pocket and slammed them down on the table, and made to leave, but before I could retrieve my hat from the stand Holmes interposed himself between myself and the door.

"Wait," he said.

"Stand aside, sir." I had my cane in my hand, and was prepared to use it if he refused me egress.

"I have a proposition for you. No, no," he quickly added as I raised my cane, "allow me to explain. You are a man of action, not to mention education. I am a consulting detective -- the world's only consulting detective, in fact."

"Yes," I said, and lowered my cane, though I remained on guard, "what the devil is that, anyway?"

"A most singular profession -- the epitome of intellectual dexterity, and a vocation of particular use to society." I wavered, and he stepped toward me and took the cane from my hand. "But my work is sadly intermittent. I must have company, intelligent company, or I shall go stark staring mad. I had thought Stamford might fit the bill, but his mind is a closed book. He has no spirit of inquiry, no curiosity in him."

"And I do?"

"You are here, aren't you?" He stood before me, staring intently at me, and I perceived my own surrender in his reaction, satisfaction relaxing the wariness in his eyes as I gave in to the inevitable. "The rent really is quite affordable," he said in a lighter tone, "and Mrs. Hudson is a remarkable cook."

"Very well," I said, as my resistance collapsed, but I could not quite let go of what was worrying me. "On one condition: I must insist that this be an agreement between equals."

His eyes flashed, and I had a momentary vision of myself on my knees in the alleyway. "Equals?" he asked, keeping his voice light.

I swallowed. "Equals. Yes."

"In what particular sense? You cannot mean equals in intellect."

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

He glanced at the coins on the table then back at me. "Yes... I suppose you could say that I owed you one."

I felt breathless, but managed to reply, "Two, I think you'll find."

"Very well." And with no more ceremony than that, he stepped in close to me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face, and reached for me as if to immediately discharge his debt.

I stopped him, however, saying, "Perhaps you had better show me the rest of the apartment."

"The rest --"

"The bedrooms, for instance," I said, knowing that I was blushing furiously, but determined to see the thing through in proper comfort for once.

"Of course," he replied. I thought he sounded surprised but not unpleased.

He led me on a brief tour of the rooms, which I noticed hardly at all, so loudly was my blood beating in my ears. I believe I managed to utter a few commonplace remarks about the furnishings and the prospect from the windows, before we found ourselves in the chamber which Holmes used as his own bedroom. He shut the door behind us.

"You might as well remove your jacket," he said, and I did so, fumbling in my hurry to pull it off and toss it aside. My waistcoat and shirt followed it quickly, with his help; one of my collar-studs skittered across the floor to be lost under the bed, but I did not care. I helped Holmes remove his shirt in turn, dragging it over his head and balling it up before throwing it away, to leave us both bare-chested. He reached for me and drew me close, then bent to put his mouth to my collar-bone, and I threw my head back with a groan.

It was unlike our previous encounters as it could have been. Now that I know Holmes better I am no longer surprised by his perceptive powers, in sexual matters as in all else, but at the time it seemed uncanny that he should deduce, with such accuracy, the means by which to bring me most pleasure. His touch was deft and certain, and I touched him eagerly in return, running my hands over the muscles of his chest and his back and then down to grasp his buttocks and pull him hard against me. I was pleased to hear him gasp.

We soon managed to undress entirely and tumble onto the bed, limbs tangled, hands on each other's pricks. I let him stroke me until I felt myself approaching the point beyond which there is no return, then pulled away, rolled on top of him, and slid my prick between his thighs. With a few thrusts I reached my climax, and he was not far behind me, coming with a cry. I fell upon him, and we lay there a while in languid exhaustion, the results of our pleasure drying stickily on our skin.

* * *

We sat leaning against the headboard of Holmes's bed, I in his disreputable old dressing gown, and he in nothing but a shirt.

"I'm glad you don't mind the smell of strong tobacco," Holmes said as he blew out a cloud of smoke from his pipe. "That would be a disaster. What about chemical experiments? The violin? Late hours?"

"I believe I can handle them," I said with equanimity, for I was quite basking in a glow of satisfaction. "Provided you don't mind me seeing patients here from time to time. Oh, and I keep a bull pup."

"Excellent! Have you no other vices?"

"Oh, some," I assured him.

"In that case," he said, "I expect we shall get along famously."


End file.
